


This Life to Fix

by Anthrobrat



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anthrobrat/pseuds/Anthrobrat
Summary: It was a funny thing, pain. It had the power to clip words and muddle the brain, but also the ability to tear down walls and open a man up so fully you could peer right into the soul of himInjuries had been what brought them together. Starting as far back as Toccoa.Guarnere woke up one day and called his best friend to invite him to stay in Philly. It was an olive branch, a favor, he did it for Joe. But as he looked back on their friendship while under fire, he started to see how much Joe Toye had always meant to him.
Relationships: Bill Guarnere/Joseph Toye
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	This Life to Fix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts).



> Thank you a million times and then a million more times to my beta, without whom this would not exist in its current, legible form. She's a gift from god. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this story - it's kind of weird and maybe a little disjointed (and potentially not at all what you wanted), but it feels true to Bill and Joe figuring their shit out.  
> Happy Valentines Day, enjoy this sweet little snack.

It caught up to him at the strangest moments. 

He’d spent his Friday night at the bar with Babe. Sitting on the stool with the Bill-shaped cushion, he supposed this was the life of the bachelor post war. Babe had done a little southern travelling, but had since come back and squeezed back onto his barstool with a sigh and a clap to Bill’s back. Life since then had become pretty fucking routine. Frannie came by with a casserole on Wednesdays, like it had become some sort of ritual. She was with a new man but she still cared, she kept saying. If her macaroni wasn’t so damned good he’d probably stop answering the door. That night he’d finished off his casserole and gone to the bar with Babe. Usually they closed it down, but that night he’d gone too heavy too early and so he was home when midnight came around. 

Midnight ticked by slowly, catching Bill staring at the clock on the wall to get a handle on the spins that had started. As he watched the second hand click endlessly around, the sound feeling like an echo of his own heartbeat, the all too familiar shooting pains began. It started as a cramp in his right calf, and radiated out from there, until it felt like it seared into his toes.

The doc said it was normal, but that didn’t change how much it fucking hurt. He sat up and rubbed the stump where his right leg used to be, because Joe had once told him that reminding his brain there wasn’t anything there helped. They’d had a few conversations on the phone once they were both stateside, and the pains had come up at some point. Mostly Bill got the feeling Joe didn’t want any reminders of the hospital stays or the long trip back to life, so he’d kept most conversations about updates on whatever guys he could find and the weather. It was weird, going from having every day in common to talking about the weather. 

If Bill was honest with himself, it wasn’t even the pain that was the issue - he was strong as an ox, and a man to boot, he could deal with pain. Pain had been part of war, whether blisters, boils, or bullet wounds. Or that time he’d almost died riding that god forsaken motorcycle. It wasn’t the pain - it was what it represented. It was the memories that came with it. The pain would make them cascade down his consciousness, explode behind his eyes, bombard every sense until he could swear he felt that same stale dirt under his fingernails. Then he’d remember how the drinking never fixed the issue, only making his descent into the melancholic slideshow of memories that much slicker, like being pulled down a mud-soaked riverbank. 

He’d long stopped resisting or trying to claw his way out, instead letting it wash over him. Flashes of explosions, shaky visions of double timing through fields under fire, German tank treads, and then that familiar ending: a piercing shout through the trees, running to Joe, trying to help, trying to drag him to safety kicking and screaming, and finally the world going black and coming back sharper, seared in red pain. 

When he was really maudlin, he’d try to remember that moment he jumped out of his foxhole. What had driven him against the direct orders of Buck and Lip? Malarkey hadn’t followed even though he was there, so he must not have had the same feeling, or the same death wish. If any of it fucking mattered, he’d write to ask if Malarkey had an idea what he’d been thinking. He couldn’t even remember if he’d said anything to the guy before trotting out into an active shelling. Lucky that hadn’t killed him. Had come damn close. 

He rolled onto his side, pulled his legs up, and curled into a ball as small as he could muster, and then stretched back out long, arms over head, trying to make his body remember he was alive, that he was okay, that he wasn’t in that kind of pain any more. It was a funny thing, pain. It had the power to clip words and muddle the brain, but also the ability to tear down walls and open a man up so fully you could peer right into the soul of him. 

If that was the case, he’d peered into many a man’s soul over in Europe. Had certainly seen right down into the depths of Toye’s soul. Past his dark brown eyes and ashen skin, into the man he was and the one he wanted to be, the life he came close to missing out on. Injuries had been what brought them together, so they’d dealt with its effects and stared into each other’s souls more than most, he’d have to assume. As far back as Toccoa, and the recurring ankle injuries. It had been Toye who noticed his limp before anybody else. Made him sit, take off his boot, check the injury. The imprints of the boot hooks and sock tread were left behind on his quickly swelling leg. Joe sat down next to him and threw his own swollen foot up to compare. 

“Good thing they’re on opposite sides, means we can help each other over to mess to get some chow.”

That was all that had been spoken. Joe was fickle with his words - sometimes they would flow as though they were an unending river, and other times he was stingy with them, like maybe they were some sort of resource that might run out at any fucking moment. That day, the pain and exhaustion had stolen his sentences. All the better, Bill hadn’t wanted to hear it anyway. 

With thoughts drifting toward wrapping their arms around each other and hustling toward the chow line, Bill dropped off into a mostly restful sleep, waking up the next morning oddly invigorated, and with an urgent need to call Joe Toye. 

Calling the number written next to his phone and labeled “Toye,” Bill waited patiently as he was passed around the party line. When Joe finally picked up, though, he sounded like hell. Bill suddenly knew without a doubt that letting Joe move back to Pittsburgh when they finally got all the bullshit healing out of the way had been a bad idea. There hadn’t been a choice then. He’d insisted. Wanted to see his sister. Bill understood, wanted the same things when he made it home, but he couldn’t imagine living in a family that just wanted you to be able to go back to the mines. They had their lives ahead of them. They'd survived. It didn’t quite seem fair. Which explained why the words “you should come to Philly, I’ve got some great connections here” tumbled out of his mouth without second thought. 

“I’m not coming to Philly. What would I even do there? I got a job, I got family here.”

“Joe. You sound miserable.”

“I am," Joe said in the deadpanned tone. Then he huffed out a breath which may have been a laugh. "What makes me less miserable in Philly?”

Bill couldn’t come up with anything other than his own presence in the city for a draw. And it didn’t seem necessary to tell Joe he just wanted him there. 

“Just come! Me and Babe will show you around, introduce you to some people, I can find you a job.”

“I’m not coming to Philadelphia just because you think you can get me a job. Why the hell do you want me out there anyway? Feelin' guilty or something?” Now Bill could definitely hear the levity of Joe's voice. The man was fucking toying with him.

“Fuck off, I just wanna see you, okay?”

“Now we’re gettin' somewhere.” Joe’s laugh sounded tinny, but it made him sound lighter somehow. “I could go for a reunion. Good reason to put my new shoes on. Ma says they make me look sharp.”

“Hell, I don’t care if you come barefoot, just get your ass on a train.”

“Alright Guarno, I'll come. I’m coming." Joe's voice and breaths drifted away, like maybe he'd taken the phone away from his face for a moment. When it came back, he sounded a little stronger. "I’ve got stuff to take care of first, but I’ll get a train ticket.”

“Let me know when you’re comin', I can pick you up.”

“Nah, no need. I’ll get there when I get there.”

 _Fine_ , Bill thought. He wouldn’t worry about it. He’d just leave a key under the mat and some day he’d show up to a tall Irishman in his house. Babe would get a kick out of it, that was for certain.

That same night, when the pain and the anger and anxiety crept back in, he thought once more of the tall, quiet fighter. Remembered when he first met Joe, thinking he was scrappy and no-nonsense. Bill had felt good about having someone so capable on the line with him. That respect turned into a bone-deep connection to the man that he still wasn’t sure he knew how to define. But it was a good feeling, so he didn’t question it much. And Joe was fucking funny. Of course they’d be best friends. 

His brain flickered to their nights in England, taking their passes together, hooting and hollering around the local towns, raising hell, trying to keep everyone alive and looking forward. There were a few run ins with the broads, and that time Bill got busted back to private which Joe teased him mercilessly for. Always saying “that’s why I keep it zipped, Gonnorhea.” 

It wasn’t until Frannie had made a joke that maybe he should marry Joe in a letter that he realized how much he spoke about the man. At first, he was pissed and thrown off that she’d even think that. _Wouldn’t marry you if my life depended on it_ was all Joe had said on the subject, reading over his shoulder during a game of cards with the NCOs. _Wouldn’t marry you either_ had been Bill’s quick reply. 

That wasn’t a good path to tumble down on a night like tonight though. Frannie would always be a sore spot. They’d tried, they really had, but it took more than loving each other. The broken heart could, at that point, just be added to his endless tally of wounds. 

\-----

Three weeks later, Bill had all but given up hope that Joe Toye would be gracing them with his presence in Philly when he walked into his apartment to the smell of cigarette smoke. There was Joe, lounging on his couch blowing smoke rings into the air.

“This apartment is shit,” was all he had to say by way of a hello.

“What do you expect, you’re lucky I’m not living with my Ma.”

“At least then I’d probably be fed. You got no food here. What’re you eating, K rations?” Joe slowly got off the couch and massaged his leg before making his way over to Bill across the room. He put his hand out for a shake but then pulled him in for one of those back slapping hugs. The bravado was odd, since it was just the two of them. Bill had remembered a different man, or maybe the process of healing and going home had hardened him, reinforced those walls that Bill and their shared injuries had always been so good at scaling. 

“Christ sake, I’ll feed you, let’s go. There’s a deli down the block.” Bill picked Joe’s jacket up and tossed it to him before pulling his own back on and grabbing his keys from the hook. He was currently trying out another prosthetic, which he didn’t like any more than the last, and contemplated once again if maybe just crutching around would be easier. Joe looked like he was having a marginally easier time with his, even if he massaged the leg more than seemed necessary. 

“This place got corn beef? I’d kill for a corned beef sandwich.” Bill had missed the low, gravelly sound of Joe’s voice. He heard whispers of it sometimes, when he wasn’t expecting it, as though Joe Toye was just sitting in the other room. Made it even better to hear in real life. It was so different from how his friends in Philly sounded. Babe with his loud, brash almost shout, and Ralph’s calm straightforward tone sounded fundamentally different from the man Bill was seated next to. 

The broads at the diner better not ask questions, because neither of them were probably in the mood to answer. He’d have to go to the market for some supplies so they could avoid going out every day. Even if they never left the house, this was still South Philly, so Bill rehearsed his answers silently while he led the way. _This is Joe Toye, a buddy of mine from the paratroops, he’s here for a while, I’m sure you’ll see him around._ It was the truth, wasn’t it? Wasn’t any other role the man could, or would, fill, so if anybody expected funny business they could keep looking. The man was Bill’s best friend, and a veteran, that was all they needed.

After lunch they walked back toward Bill’s tiny apartment on the south side, three streets down from where Babe was holing up for now. They kept a meandering pace, both gazing around at the scattered brick buildings, the new construction, the cobblestones under their feet. 

“You gonna stay for a while, Toye? I got some connections, you know,” Bill said, keeping his eyes on the clouds so as not to have to look Joe in the eye. “A pretty good doc down at the VA. He’s been good about the leg. PT to make it easier to maneuver with this fucking dead weight.”

“Yeah, Bill. I can stay. Ain’t nothing for me in Pittston, at least here I’m entertained. Don’t know how long it’ll be for, though.” Joe continued to squint up toward the bright sky, also avoiding eye contact, but walking close enough that Bill could still elbow him in the side when Joe called him things like “entertaining.” 

They spent the afternoon in comfortable silence, moving around one another as Joe dropped his toothbrush in a cup in the bathroom and Bill went to his ma’s house for an extra blanket. When he came back, it was to an as yet unexperienced sight of Joe: passed out cold on the couch, his left leg hanging down onto the floor and his right arm flung halfway over his face to block the light streaming in the window. They’d fallen asleep in holes, against piles of rubble, in squeaky beds with little to no linens to speak of. But the sight of Joe sleeping in Bill’s home, comfortable and safe enough to sleep with a kind of reckless abandon? Felt like it fucking meant something. 

Suddenly Bill found himself back in Mourmelon, thinkin Joe was asleep as he’d walked into the barracks. He’d just gone AWOL from the hospital and hitchhiked his way back to the company, to his friends. He had stood in the doorway for a second too long, he supposed, because Joe’s eyes snapped open and his sights were trained directly on Bill. 

“The fuck you back here for?” Joe had said, still not moving from his prone position on the uncomfortable cot in the barracks. 

“Heard there was a football game, figured you’d need a running back,” Bill remembered replying, forcing words past the ongoing pain in his leg.

“Ain’t no way I’m giving you the ball, I can see you limping from here.” They had both smiled at the reference to Bill’s stupidity with the fucking motorcycle. 

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine, worry about yourself. Who’s quarterback?”

They had fallen into that same way they had with each other, like no time had past, like Bill had never left. That’s always how it was. No matter who was hurt, there wasn’t a single question about it, they’d be coming back. It had always been the two of them, dragging each other up and out and keeping things moving forward. 

Staring now at Joe’s prone form on his own couch, Bill considered how many times they had come back to each other. Like magnets or some shit. They fought best together. Hell, between the two of them they had half a dozen AWOLs from hospitals, and hundreds of miles hitch hiked. They’d managed to stay together through countless hospital stays. A train trip was nothing. The question then, in his mind, was whether Joe Toye had come to heal himself or to heal Bill. He could ask, or he could go on the assumption that it was a little bit of both. Honestly he felt more himself than he had since the day their hospital stay was over and Joe left for home.

With that in mind, Bill did what he did best - executed a plan. Joe needed a job, and he needed to visit the doctor. The way he was rubbing his thigh made Bill think maybe everything wasn’t quite as copacetic as the two of them were willing to say. 

Bill made a few calls around to his connections to try to find something for Joe. There were limited options now that all the boys were back, but he found him a position sorting incoming mail at the radio station where his mother’s best friend’s husband was a producer. It would at least hold him over until they could find something more fitting. Joe was like Bill, without a job he was a terrifying force to be reckoned with. Made him think of those barracks before shipping out to Bastogne. Jesus, they’d ripped that place apart. Winters shoulda known a football game and daily PT wasn’t enough to keep them in line once they’d seen so much action. 

On Friday, Joe came back from an interview with a new swagger, told Bill to call Babe because they were going out to celebrate. Babe and Joe were happy to see each other, and the three fell into the same old habits of tearing up the town and making way too much noise. The broads were circling, but it seemed as though all three were happy in each other’s company. Babe regaled them of his experiences at the Mardi Gras the year before, and of Gene’s wife’s delicious Strawberry Rhubarb pie and Joe told stories about his sister’s kids back in Pittston. They drank just enough that they had to keep one eye closed and lean on each other to get back to Bill’s apartment. 

When they’d fallen onto the couch at last, Joe had looked across at him, with those big brown fucking eyes, like he had suddenly forgotten where he was. He looked lost, and alone even though Bill was sitting right there. Bill didn’t hesitate to reach out and grab his knee, to center him back in the world. He figured it worked when Joe sucked in a deep breath and then let it out, smiling over at him. He smiled back, having no fucking idea why. 

That night, Bill fell asleep to the sounds of Joe’s drunken humming. After the moment on the couch, they’d fallen once more into talking, although Bill had been remiss to move his hand. Worried that if he did Joe’s mind might drift away once more. 

Joe had, indeed, changed tunes since the war. He’d replaced “I’ll Be Seeing You” with something more contemporary, and probably less likely to give them all flashbacks, but the sentiment was still there. Bill wasn’t sure whether Joe was singing for himself or for Bill, but it soothed him anyway. Doc Roe’s hands could sooth many wounds, but so could Joe Toye’s voice. There was just something soothing about knowing he was there, being close enough to hear him. His singing voice should bring back terrible memories, but just like when they were in their foxholes, his singing only succeeded in lifting morale. 

Falling asleep to Joe’s humming became an unspoken habit in the next two weeks. The two of them had established a good kind of rhythm, until Joe was finally comfortable enough to start bitching about the constant leftovers from Bill’s ma. After a big stink, he had forced Bill to buy some groceries so he could cook them a real meal. 

“I can make a corned beef and some potatoes. Your mom makes great food, but I can’t eat another damned casserole.” Joe had said as he pulled his shirt over his head and headed out to work. Bill was caught for a moment by the continued discoloration of the scars across his torso, remembered for a moment another time when they’d been shirtless and the wounds were fresh. 

“I can cook you know,” he groused when he came back to himself.” I just haven’t. What’s the point when she’ll do it? But I know all Ma’s recipes, been taking care of myself my whole life.”

Bill got out of work earlier that day, so he stopped at the grocer and picked up stuff to make a quick bolognese and some spaghetti when he got home. Seemed a little domestic to him, but if Joe wanted real food he could certainly oblige. Plus, he had barely heard from Frannie since he told her Joe had come to town, so he wasn’t sure if they could count on her casserole either. He could cook for Joe. As he put more food in the basket, and then stopped at the bakery for cannolis on the way home, he was almost excited about it. 

When Bill got home he put together the sauce and then left it to simmer while he headed toward the bathroom to shower, sliding by Joe in the tiny galley kitchen on his way in to see what Bill had brought. Joe’s shuffle reminded Bill that his leg still needed to be tended to. He stopped and turned around in the doorway.

“How’s it feeling today?”

“Hurts. There’s more standing than I had originally thought with this job.” Joe leaned into a counter and massaged his thigh. “More walking around too. At least at the mine I was sitting in a chair all day at the grinder.”

“We can keep looking,” Bill said as he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the opposite counter as he worried he’d rushed Joe into this job.

“Nah, I’ll get used to it. I’m just thankful you found something.”

“You called my doc yet? Got an appointment?”

“No, Bill, not yet,” Joe laughed, “I’m just trying to find my, uh, footing.” He looked up and Bill stepped closer, leaning off his side of the counter and toward his friend, unsure why he suddenly wanted to once again reach out. He curled his hands in on themselves - he didn’t know if they were the kind of men who touched like that. They had in their foxholes, and in the hospital, but in real life it felt different. 

“Well you ain’t gonna find shit if you’re in pain all the time.” His confusion turned so quickly into anger that his head spun a little, and he found himself once again edging toward Joe. 

They could go around like this forever, and Bill was getting right and ready to puff his chest out into Joe’s when he heard a clicking of the key in the lock. 

“Expecting company?” Joe asked from much closer to his face than he had realized. When they both looked sideways toward the door their cheeks almost touched. Bill didn’t know why he found himself praying it was his mother walking in when he knew exactly who it was. It was Wednesday, afterall. 

“Hey Bill! I made a -- oh!” Frannie’s look of shock made sense, since Bill was toe to toe with Joe in their kitchen, sauce and bubbling away on the stove like some picture of fucking domesticity. He took a step back, winced when he landed wrong in the prosthetic, but caught himself against the door jamb. Joe reached out to steady him, and he heard Frannie’s voice catch. Too late to stop the touch, he let Joe’s hand steady him back against the counter.

“Hey Frannie!” Bill called a little too loudly. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to come by, so Joe and I started dinner. Frannie, you remember Joe from that fucking hospital right? I told you he was coming to town for a while.”

Frannie’s smile seemed to fall slightly before she caught it and came over to say hi. Joe let go of him to shake her hand as though she was an old friend. Bill appreciated the ease with which Joe handled Frannie showing up, even if no one was sure what the protocol was. Bill suddenly became aware of a strange tension in the room, and wasn’t sure what specifically had caused it. 

“You wanna stay for a bit, Frannie? We’ve got a few beers, I can finally feed you,” Joe finally said, breaking the silence and pulling her into the kitchen. 

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.” She gestured over her shoulder and continued. “I have to get back home, the girls are coming for bridge --”

“Ah come on, I haven’t seen you in weeks, and Joe’s never met you. I know they don’t get there until at least 7:30.” Bill turned on his charming smile, wagged his eyebrows. “Might be nice.”

Their charms were enough that Frannie ended up staying for a drink with the two of them while the sauce simmered. It was strange, having Joe Toye and Frannie Peca across the table from him at the same time. Two of the most important people in his life thus far, their contrast even more stark the closer they sat to each other. 

He kept thinking about exactly that, all the way through dinner and the four or five drinks he and Joe had while playing Rummy at the kitchen table. Frannie was long gone, back among her own friends playing her own cards. Even down the street she was in a different world, and Joe was still in his. 

The pain came back that night -- damn that sixth beer, he should’ve known better -- and the cascade came shortly after. When finally his mind reached that moment of jumping out of his foxhole, he once again came bolt upright out of bed. He still hadn’t figured out what exactly it was about it that continued to creep through his subconscious. So he picked his thoughts. He thought once again of Frannie, of her life back home while he’d been at war, at the things that he told her of his friends and his experiences. 

That something had finally driven her to write him and say goodbye. He had half expected it from the moment he got on the train to Georgia, but the hurt it had caused was deep. It hurt just as bad as getting shot, only there was no wound, no injury, no proof. The letter about Henry had come to him the day they jumped into Normandy, it was only fitting that hers had arrived the day they shipped out to Bastogne. He would have spent the entire ride wallowing if Joe hadn’t saved him from his own self pity. He’d shoved an arm into Bill’s ribs, started up an old tune, and soon the whole truck was jumping even if they were terrified of what awaited them. 

The “Dear Bill” had been the latest in a long line of slights and hurts: looking back, he’d had so many injuries by the time they arrived in that damn forest, so many close calls, that he had started wondering if maybe he was becoming invincible. Like he’d always just end up back on the front line with another wound to write home about. Stupid mistake, that. Fucking idiot. He was just lucky. Lucky he hadn’t been lead scout like Blithe or Julian, lucky it was Hall who had trailed behind by a few seconds, lucky the snipers never seemed to spot his helmet. Not to mention that when he crashed the bike he landed on top of it instead of the other way round. 

But a few weeks after reading her letter, on that fateful day in January, it wasn’t bad luck that had brought him out of his foxhole. No, that was a blind sort of panic, hearing Joe’s cries. He hadn’t even considered what he was doing. In the time since, while sitting in hospitals and almost dying on planes home, Bill had had a lot of time to think about that moment. For the life of him, he couldn’t even remember making the decision. He was huddled in the foxhole with Don, and he heard Toye, and then he was there, and then the panic set in as the obstinate asshole tried to get his gun, and then white noise and pain. 

He didn’t need to ask Malarkey what had happened. It was clear what had happened. Bill had heard that man shouting and in a split second realized he’d rather die too than know a world without him. Jesus Chrst. Joe was his best friend, his brother, damn near his whole world, of course he’d risk his own life to try to save him. That’s all it was, right? They were friends. They were best friends. A man did what he could to save his best fucking friend. 

But now that his mind had latched onto that day again, he let it drift a little further back. To the memory of that freezing cold morning on what would be his last day of combat. To the warmth of Joe’s breath on his face as they spoke softly to each other, to the way Joe made him feel like everything just might be okay, to the fact that it was the first time he didn’t actively miss Frannie since he’d left Philly. To the feeling of Joe leaning toward him, his hand on Bill’s thigh to steady himself. To the two of them laughing off the moment when it was broken by the sounds of their fellow soldiers waking up. He blinked hard, wondering if that was what he was trying to get back. Not the moment of saving each other, but that moment of clarity he’d had, there, together, with Joe.

Before it had all been so washed in blood he’d forgotten.

\----

Bill tried his best to keep an even keel, not to rock the boat of their still tenuous position as roommates. Drinks with Babe had been fun the last time, so he’d mentioned it once more on Friday, thinking maybe if Joe had his own seat at the bar he’d stay a little longer. How his fucking life had come down to getting Joe to stay another day, week, month he didn’t know. He played the cards he had. 

When nine o’clock rolled around and Joe was still nowhere to be found, Bill paid his tab and slid off his stool to head home early, to the increasingly obnoxious cries and banter from his best friend. Babe would do the same, if Gene was supposed to show and didn’t. 

He stopped short when he saw Joe’s shoe on the ground outside his apartment building. Those special shoes they made them wear were expensive, so seeing Toye’s laying haphazardly on the ground made the hairs on his neck stand up. He glanced around briefly, ran into the nearby alleyway, worried Joe may have been attacked, but found no trace. Finally giving up, hoping the man was okay, Bill walked back toward the entryway. The inhuman sound drew his gaze upward, and there was Joe, dangling dangerously close to the edge of the roof with a bottle in his hand, howling at the moon. 

“What the fuck are you doing up there you crazy asshole?” Bill yelled, letting his worry come out in the easiest way possible - anger. “Been standin’ down here assumin’ you’d died and you didn’t think to let me know?”

Joe just huffed out a laugh, like Bill’s feelings hadn’t mattered much in the first place. Bill breathed in real slow, knowing that anger wasn’t what his friend needed now. But then, just as he was about to walk over to grab Toye’s “sharp” new shoe, the bottle came sailing down almost on top of him. Shattering on impact, it sprayed good whiskey all over Bill’s pants. He was lucky he didn’t get a shard to the eye. Walking over to see the damage, he noticed it was the good whiskey he’d been saving. 

“You stupid sunovabitch, you’re wasting my good whiskey!” He could handle trying to keep a lid on his feelings, even when he finally realized that maybe he needed Joe more than Joe needed him. He could have even weathered trying to talk the man down. But watching the whiskey he’d been saving for a rainy day shatter all over his and Joe’s shoes set something off inside. He muttered “last straw” under his breath all the way up to the roof of the building where he threw the shoe down by the door and marched over to Joe.

“I’m sorry, I was just --” Joe began to say apologetically, stopping abruptly when Bill grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him further onto the roof. 

“You trying to get yourself killed? That what this is? Bastogne didn’t do it, so you’ll let my fucking roof do the dirty work?” Bill had slid past mad and straight to the kind of furious that tinted his sight and sped his heart. How dare Joe think he could leave him now, after everything. They were going to be okay if Bill had to haul Joe into happiness kicking and fucking screaming. Which was maybe what he’d have to do considering the fight Joe was putting up.

“Joe, I can’t… I can’t fucking worry about you like this.” Bill kept his fists wrapped in the lapels of Joe’s coat even as he began to settle down.

“It ain’t like that,” Joe whispered from where he was sprawled with his face on Bills thigh. “Didn’t work out at the station. Came up here ‘cause I just needed some air. And a drink. I meant to meet you at the bar, but didn’t see the point. Then my leg started to itch. I don’t know how it ended up down there.” 

“I just wanted you to have a good day. I didn’t know… I don’t know how else to help, alright?”

“I didn’t ask you to, never asked you to. You did that all on your own. All the way from Toccoa. You fucking idiot, you jumped out of a foxhole during a shelling for me! Why would you fucking do that?” Joe finally got free, propped himself on his hands and knee in front of Bill, like a cat ready to pounce, to inflict untold damage, and Bill broke. 

“Because I love you, you stupid asshole!”

The outburst made Joe stop in his tracks, teetering on his hands and knee, his bad leg awkwardly lifted, like a newborn foal, mouth opening and closing, like he was looking for some sort of retort and coming up with nothing. Bill assumed his face looked about the same, considering how shocked he was to have let that slip. 

Bill though that would be the end of it, but Joe charged anyway. He shouldered Bill onto the ground, grabbed the collar of his shirt and held him down. Bill was expecting a punch to the face, was bringing his arms up to protect himself from that exact outcome, when a pair of warm lips descended on his own. 

At first, he didn’t react at all, frozen under a mountain of hesitation, but then Joe’s hand moved to his neck, caressed it. It spurned Bill to action as he slid his hands up, squeezed them around Toye’s ribs, opened his mouth when Joe’s tongue sought entrance. 

Joe threw his weight even harder onto Bill, crashing their chests together so hard that he ended up with his back flat against the cold of the rooftop, but Bill wasn’t going to let Joe just take him down like that, so he used the leverage in his legs to roll them and claim the dominant position. When Joe pulled back, Bill laughed and Joe smiled in response before pulling his face back down and biting his bottom lip. 

“This what you want? Me at my worst?” Joe smiled then, bit the side of Bill’s jaw as he bucked up with his hips, trying to throw Bill off. Bill couldn’t tell whether it was intentional, but the movement managed to grind their hips together in a way that had him biting back a moan.

“I’ll take you however I can get you, you should know that by now.” Bill leaned up on one of his arms and used the other to undo Joe’s belt buckle. None of the movements were graceful, with Joe trying to roll them over and gain the upper hand. Joe almost got him, but Bill held on until he had Joe’s pants undone and a hand around his cock. That stilled his movements, giving Bill a rush of adrenaline which addled his brain. That was the only explanation for what came out of his mouth next. 

“You like that?” Bill whispered. “Is this what you wanted? What you came here for?”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, you’re gonna pull that right now?” Joe snapped back, pushing Bill off him with all his strength until he rolled onto his back. Joe sat up, zipping his pants while he took a few deep breaths. “Guarnere, what’d you bring me here for?”

Separate enough now to be able to breathe again, but still able to smell the distinct scent of his best friend on his skin, Bill ran his hands through his hair and scratched his neck. He wanted to have an answer, he really did, but he had no earthly fucking idea. He just knew he wanted Joe near him. Felt uncomfortable when he wasn’t. It all seemed easier together. But maybe that wasn’t what Joe needed. 

“I don’t know, Joe, okay? I don’t know.” Bill pulled a knee up and wrapped his elbow over it, sighing. Joe finally relaxed onto his back next to him, tucking his hands behind his head. 

“I’m glad you got me out of there, I really am. But it ain’t much better sitting here waiting for you to get your head out of your ass.” Joe looked over at Bill with dead serious eyes. Bill wanted to laugh off what had just happened, but that look said that if he did Joe would be gone come morning. Maybe that was what was best for them, but it certainly wasn’t something he was gonna let happen.

“Alright, alright, put your fucking shoes back on and come inside, we’ll figure this out.” Bill waited for Joe to get himself situated, and then leant him a hand and pulled him up. There was a beat of silence, of Joe looking at Bill in a way that would have made him want to avert his eyes if he was less of a man. When Joe finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“Bill, I figured my shit out in 1944. Well, the you of it at least.” He gestured vaguely to his leg. “This is still a nightmare.” 

When they got back inside, Joe plopped himself down on Bill’s well-worn couch and lifted his leg onto the oak crate that doubled as a coffee table. Bill walked into the kitchen and grabbed two cans of beer out of the fridge, popping the tops and handing one over as he maneuvered himself to sit on the other side of the couch. 

Joe gave him a look when he sat down clear across the couch from the guy. He just wasn’t sure what to do in the situation, and it was starting to feel like one of those times where they were supposed to talk or something. Talking was for people who had something to say, and while Bill always had things to say, when it came to Joe those things didn’t make enough sense to him to put words to it. They’d done so well keeping quiet and letting their bodies do the lion’s share of the work of communicating. They’d spent years literally propping each other up. Taking care of each others’ hurts. 

“What’d you mean you figured your shit out in 1944?” Well, Bill figured if he was gonna start anywhere, it might as well be with his head rammed through the brick wall.

“You know what I mean. It sure wasn’t a secret.”

“No, Joe, I don’t know what you mean, which is why I’m fucking asking.” Bill said, turning toward him more aggressively than he meant. This shit was harder than it looked. 

“I’ll answer when you do. Why the fuck did you bring me here, Guarno?”

Bill looked down at his hands, at their legs on the couch, at the similarities between them and all they had experienced. He thought he’d been doing Joe a fucking favor. Thought he’d been saving him. Ole Gonnorhea did miss a fucking lot, didn’t he? Jesus Christ, he’d missed everything. He looked up to see Joe watching him with a look of calm and patience, which was a lot considering the state he’d been in less than 20 minutes ago. Apparently a quick tug on his cock and he was right as rain. 

Joe was waiting for him. Like he’d said, he’d apparently figured it all out years ago. Had just been waiting for Bill to catch up. Well, he was here now, wasn’t he? So he scooted across the cushions, leaning forward into Joe to press their lips together. He didn’t know how to tell the fucker that he understood, that this was clearly part of their process, but he could at least give him that. Without pretense or posturing. 

Just when he began to worry that he hadn’t made the right move, Joe’s fingers came up to skim across his jaw, and his lips began to move in tandem with Bill’s. The angle was awkward, and he didn’t have the right leverage, especially missing a fucking leg, but he would hold himself up on his arm until the moment Joe pulled away. Which seemed like it should have happened at some point, but then they were still kissing when his arm started to tremble from the weight he’d put on it. When Joe felt the tremor in his arm, he pulled Bill further onto him instead of pushing him away. 

The lack of counterbalance was obvious when he went down with a huff, landing fully on top of Joe’s chest. 

“This fucking couch…” he mumbled, trying to work up a mad, but having trouble with Joe smiling against his lips. “The fuck you smiling at?”

“I just like you when you’re flustered.” Joe pushed him off and sat up, combing his fingers through his hair, looking back at Bill sideways and smiling at nothing. 

“Should we take this to my room or something? God we’ve been to war, you know. I shouldn’t feel like a fucking 16 year old prick.” From the roof to the couch to his bed - that had happened fast. Bill wasn’t sure what was spurring him on with this situation, he just knew he didn’t want to let Joe go. Was afraid that if he let go he’d leave and never come back. If the roles were reversed Bill knew he’d do the same. 

Bill took them into his room and closed the door behind him. He walked Joe back toward the bed, still unsure of what this next move was going to spell for the two of them. Stripping off his own shirt, he reached for Joe’s. He lifted it up and looked his fill in the low light of his room, noticing the various dips of shrapnel scars as well as the tone and sinew of his chest and shoulders. Bill licked his lips, finally looking up into Joe’s face. 

Joe didn’t say anything, just dipped a finger into the waistline of Bill’s slacks, leaning his head down to run his nose along Bill’s jaw. They were a little wobbly on their feet, either due to the booze or the heady cocktail of need that was pouring off both of them. It was like he’d inadvertently opened some sort of flood gate. There was no putting this back where it had come from. They would no longer fit in that box. 

Bill hadn’t quite figured out what they were gonna do once their pants were off, and he could feel Joe tense up when he slid his fingers past Joe’s waistband. The muscles in his torso rippled as Bill’s fingers tucked in behind his belt. Bill had the sudden urge to bite him right on his hip. There was a carnal sort of power between them that was new, that he hadn’t known before. The thought was followed up by Joe biting down on the tendon in his neck. 

“Fuck Joe. Maybe this is why I brought you here. Maybe it didn’t make sense without you anymore.”

Joe didn’t respond, but he took a shaky breath in and unbuckled Bill’s belt. Hearing the clink as the buckle fell toward his hip, Bill reached out to steady himself against Joe’s hips. This seemed fucking insane, and inevitable. As he looked up into those dark eyes, he was struck by how they fit. Cut from the same cloth and all. He’d been warned against sin his whole life, but somehow this moment was so far beyond what he thought the bible could have meant. 

This was just another physical extension of their connection, as perfectly fucked as it was. Matching swollen ankles, matching severed limbs, matching hard cocks that pressed against each other as he continued to stand there staring at Joe’s eyes. 

“Bill, quit staring at me and take off your fucking pants so we can get in the bed.”

The moment the words were out of Joe’s mouth, they both realized that the days of taking their pants off without sitting on the bed were past them. Bill laughed first, but Joe was right behind him, tipping his head back at the situation while he sat next to Bill and shucked off his pants. 

They had both seen each other in stages of undress since the surgeries, whether during multiple hospital visits or just around Bill’s apartment, but somehow this was different. This was intentional, and it sent a shiver of anticipation up Bill’s spine. He leaned over and put his hand directly next to Joe’s hip, then slowly brought his other hand to lay upon Joe’s right thigh, his pinky hanging just over the edge of the prosthesis. He kissed Joe behind his ear, softly, reaching up to unbuckle the strap that kept his prosthetic on but being stopped by Joe’s hand on his own.

“I can do it.” 

“You wanna do it? Fine. I just want us naked.” Bill responded, the bravado more for show or for Joe’s benefit than what he was actually feeling. He busied himself taking everything of his own off save for his skivvies, and then sliding further onto the bed only to be tackled into the pillows by his best friend. Wondered if he’d start using a different term after tonight. Fuck it, that was a question for the morning. Before he could think better of it, Joe’s mouth was back, his tongue searching Bill’s, a hand on his neck. 

When Joe brought the rest of his weight down onto Bill, moved his leg between his thighs, let his cock press heavily against Bill’s own, it was like the entirety of his being was nestled there, within that bed, between the two of them. He’d felt Joe’s weight on him before, play fighting, diving on each other when shells were incoming, ending up in a pile of broken limbs in the snow. None of those were like this, though. This was raw and personal and _Jesus Christ please do that again_ he thought as Joe ground his hips down once more. 

Bill couldn’t help but wrap his hands around Joe’s waist at that point, pulling him closer, digging his fingers in until they were sure to leave bruises the next day. Joe would leave his own bruises, along the ridges of Bill’s shoulder and neck, he would bite and suck just until it was painful and then lick over the wound. They were marking each other once again, matching hurts to make a pair. Bill thought again about that day in Toccoa, of limping together to the mess hall, and then suddenly he wasn’t thinking about anything at all.

Joe pressed up to make a little room so he could slide his hand down Bill’s stomach and into his shorts to palm his cock. The touch was dry but not uncomfortable, and it had his eyes rolling back in ecstasy. This position was good, but it was clear that Joe wanted more because he pulled and maneuvered their shorts until he could stretch his hand around them both, allowing Bill to flex up into him at the same time he stroked downward. The moaned into each other’s mouths, biting lips, Bill digging fingers once again into Joe’s skin.

Joe continued even as their breath grew ragged, not daring to thrust his own hips, just moving his hand and allowing Bill to move against him, as if maybe he couldn’t believe it was happening. But it was happening, whether they had expected it or not, and Bill’s mind had wrapped just right around this turn of events. Joe’s cock against his, his arm around Joe, his leg hitching further and further up, as leverage for Joe’s bad leg and just because it felt fucking good. 

Bill had mentally promised himself he would warn a guy when he was about to come, but then it all felt so good that all he could manage was a strangled groan and a squeeze of Joe’s waist. It seemed Joe got the message though, because he tightened his fingers ever so slightly and rode it out. Bill felt himself spill all over his own chest and Joe’s hands. “Shit. Joe.” 

It was all he could get out, and then Joe let go and rolled onto his back, panting with his hand still around his own hard cock. 

“You are not gonna take care of that yourself,” Bill complained, rolling onto his side and reaching out. 

“It’s fine, I got it.”

But Bill just knocked Joe’s hand out of the way and wrapped his fingers around him. Joe was not going to be the self sacrificing one tonight. Not on his fucking watch. He’d make it equal if it killed him. That’s how they were. Equals. He and that equality were going to get Joe off spectacularly, judging by his reactions to the quickening pace. Joe came with a shout and a sigh, coating his own chest. 

Neither had thought to bring a towel to the bed or anything, hell Bill hadn’t even known this was where his night would end up when he walked home from the bar, but he felt lighter than he had been in forever. So he reached to the floor for his undershirt and used that to clean them both up before laying back down against the pillows with his head leaned against Joe’s own and their shoulders touching. 

There was conversation, but he couldn’t remember what the hell was said as he fell asleep squeezed into that tiny bed. He woke the next morning dripping sweat, with a barely dressed Joe Toye draped over his chest. Torn between flicking the edge of Joe’s ear or kissing his temple, Bill sat in indecision until it was stolen from him when said man rolled to his back and stretched his arms over his head.

“It certainly fucking beats waking up cold in the dirt,” Bill said, trying for levity.

“Beats waking up almost anywhere else,” Joe mumbled back, his face full of sincerity. 

“Yeah yeah, that too.” Bill agreed, caressing fingers down Joe’s ribcage. “You think this battle will be easier?”

“Nah, there’ll be bloodshed.” Joe gripped his hand before he reached the sensitive part of his ribs. “Worth it though.” 

“Worth it enough to stay?” Bill didn’t know what he was trying to say or promise, but he kept going anyway. “They’re offering classes for the GI guys at the college. I’ve got a couch. Or a bed.”

Joe let go of Bill’s hand and folded his own behind his head as he watched the ceiling in silence. Leave it to Bill that when he finally opened his fucking mouth it was to say the wrong thing. He prepared himself for the inevitable. He got it, alright, the guy had family back in Pittston, nieces and nephews and a job that sucked but paid well enough to have a family. What’d he have here other than some sort of half relationship with a guy who was no further along in figuring it out? He rolled onto his back in the space that was left on the bed, preparing himself to tell Joe to just… nevermind.

“Yea. Okay.” Joe says, in that voice of his. And then there was a warmth on the back of his hand, and fingers intertwining between his own. It wasn’t a promise, but maybe it was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song "Life to Fix" by The Record Company. 
> 
> If you want a little playlist, here were my songs to listen to:  
> "Life to Fix" The Record Company  
> "And It's Still Alright" Nathaniel Rateliff  
> "The Way You Used to Do" Queens of the Stone Age  
> "Million Reasons" Lady Gaga  
> "So Tied Up" Cold War Kids  
> "Still Out There Running" Nathaniel Rateliff and the Nightsweats  
> and of course  
> "I'll Be Seeing You" Billie Holliday


End file.
